Skin Deep
by Firebirdie
Summary: Evren's early training was a series of no-win scenarios. He believes he lost. Vette disagrees.


**A/N:** Ev 'n Vette, angst and fluff, 10000% gen as always.

Content note for references to murder, implied abuse, victim-blaming on the part of the victim, non-consensual body modification, and Sith teachings being _creepy and horrible_.

 **Skin Deep**

 **o.O.o**

"So that Draahg guy," Vette says, sliding down the side of the counter to sit on the floor opposite him. The rest of the crew have all gone to sleep, but Evren has been lurking in the galley for the past hour, hoping to drown his restlessness in its comfortable familiarity. He raises an eyebrow at her from where he's wedged in the corner between drawers and cabinet. Vette pulls a face. "He seemed pretty, uh, enthusiastic."

"At least he enjoys his work," Evren says neutrally. He is not looking forward to the inevitable rivalry. Baras's favor is capricious enough as it is. Competing against the juggernaut—with, no doubt, their master's encouragement—is the last thing he needs. All that undercutting and backstabbing is _exhausting_. And dangerous to anyone nearby. Vette is anything but helpless but so much could go wrong if she were caught by surprise. Jaesa's position is precarious enough with Quinn on board, but if Draahg finds out what she's doing . . .

"Little too much, if you ask me," says Vette. She puffs herself up, frowns ferociously, drops her voice to a mocking growl. "Baras is the greatest master ever! We shall crush his enemies beneath our feet and never think of anything more interesting to do with life! Rawr!"

Evren chuckles. "To be fair, we haven't seen him off-duty. Perhaps he has a bit more personality then."

"Yeah, not holding my breath on that." She folds her arms, sniffing contemptuously. "Besides, I got all the tall, dark, and scary Sith I need in my life. And you're cuter by a long shot. Objective fact."

"Oh, stop it, you," Evren says, flapping a hand at her in mock-dismissal.

"Hey, I'm just saying. Guy thinks he's hot shit but you did the tattoos and swoopy hair thing first, and _better._ "

He laughs again. "Flatterer. But, ah, they're quite common, among human Sith," he says. "The tattoos, that is."

"Been wondering about that, actually," says Vette. "They mean something specific, or do they just look Sithy, or what?"

Plain facts are easy enough, though his mouth has gone dry. "When there is a specific meaning, they're either associated with a particular family or line of masters and apprentices, in whole or just certain motifs; or they can reference whatever rite of passage earned them."

"Mind if I ask what you did for yours? Like—Meliah's didn't look anything like 'em, so I'm guessing it's not a family thing."

Evren wants, more than anything, to refuse. But it's Vette, and—and if anyone has a right to know . . . "I killed her son."

She startles. "Wait, what?"

"I was fourteen, and Meliah thought it was past time to move on from killing beasts. I was meant to target some ordinary Imperial, someone disposable. I went after Perrathor instead because she was . . . invested in his success." She cared for him. Loved him. Her heir, her legacy. "He thought I was coming to beg for help with training—he opened the door and invited me in. Barely had time to scream." Evren can't keep the sneer out of his voice. Can't stop bloody well _talking_.

Vette stares. "So you just . . . murdered him in cold blood."

" _Cold blood_ seems a bit inadequate to describe my mental state at the time, don't you think?"

"Don't _joke_ , okay, this isn't—" Vette takes a breath. "Are you trying to push me away or something? Creep me out?"

No. Yes. He doesn't know. "You asked for an explanation."

"You—" She breaks off, pinches the bridge of her nose. Revulsion oozes from her, cold and damning.

Evren looks down. He hesitates for a moment, then says, haltingly, "She—she had a vulnerability and it was the only way I could see to hurt her." Excuse or explanation? He doesn't know, doesn't want to know. It backfired spectacularly, too; she turned Perrathor's death into yet another lesson in how even defiance played into her hands. Even when he won, he lost. Survival meant becoming exactly what she wanted him to be. And she wouldn't kill him, and wouldn't let him die.

And now he's just being self-pitying. He has no right. She won and he let her.

Vette runs a hand down her face. "Gods. That's . . . that's twisted."

". . . Yeah," he says, voice quiet. It is. He is. They all are, in the end. Sith don't last long otherwise.

There's a long silence. Then Vette says, slowly, but building momentum, "Okay, I think you're doing that thing you do where you read the absolute worst possible meaning into everything I say because you think you deserve it for some reason, and a lot of that's on me because I am _bad_ at this, but—I just wanna state, for the record, that I don't care what you did to survive with that sadistic piece of _shit_ for a master. I don't care. However bad it is, it got you here. And I'm glad. I am so, so glad that I met you, that you're part of my life."

Evren looks up at her and _stares._ "Vette—"

"You're picking up on what I'm feeling, right? Well, this is me feeling _pissed._ Because you were a kid and she abused you, and when you fought back the only way you knew how, she punished you for it."

"I don't recall saying anything about punishment," Evren says blankly.

Vette throws up her hands. "You didn't have to! Ev, I know you. You hate being touched, you're shy about your tattoos, you've said that Meliah liked _flaunting her power_ over you—those weren't your choice. Rite of passage or not, you didn't want them."

Evren tries to find words. He can't. He can't and she—

"So just—whatever ugly mess you're getting from me, it's not for you. It's for her. _Fuck_ her," Vette snarls out, rage singing sharp and clear like shattering glass.

Evren swallows. ". . . Okay," he says hoarsely.

Another silence, less pointed but no less painful, for all that it's a cleaner, kinder ache. Vette hesitates, then asks, "Uh, possibly stupid question, but—can you get them removed? Lasered off or whatever?"

He drags in a breath. This, he can answer. "No. Some property of the ink. And even if—I'm not overly fond of the idea of allowing anyone else to . . ." He trails off, gestures helplessly at his throat.

"Yeah," Vette says softly. "Sounds familiar. Lotta Twi'leks get marked by their masters. Brands, sometimes, but also tattoos. Face and body stuff is one thing, but . . . even if they escape, they don't really go for getting the marks off their lekku."

"And yours?" Evren winces. "Sorry—"

"Nah, it's fine, I brought it up. Mine are natural. Been thinking of getting my own ink, though. Then I'm not some blank canvas for other people to decorate." And then Vette winces, too. "Shit. Sorry."

"It's all right. It's—good. To lay claim to your own flesh, however you choose to do so."

She blinks, then smiles a little. "What's your claim-laying strategy, then?"

"Armor," Evren says dryly.

Vette pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around them. "I like it. Simple, but effective."

"Effective _and_ protective, even."

"Dork."

 **o.O.o**

 _end_


End file.
